Fruits of neighbor

It is that time of the year when the two mango trees in my back yard bear fruit. It is an endless source of amazement and joy to me that something in the vicinity of the place I live actually sprouts tender green shoots and tiny flowers which then miraculously turn into mangoes. The trees are about 7 years old. I know this even though I have not lived here that long because my friend lived in this house before me. His mother-in-law, who was visiting from Kolkata, planted the seeds of a couple of delicious mangoes in the barren backyard. Over the years, with not much attention, save regular watering, these young trees have borne fruit. I was able to collect and distribute to my friends, about 15 of so mangoes from one tree last year. This time I may have twice as many to share since the other tree is showing signs of contributing some more.

While I rejoice over my produce, my neighbor, a ninety–year old lady, has two giant mango trees, one in front and another in the backyard that are swarming with yummy mangoes. There are so many fruit on every branch that they look like a swarm of green bees descended on the trees. I am told that these mangoes are of the variety used to make avakaya, the traditional pickle of Andhra Pradesh. The lady across the street is a major beneficiary of the largesse as the old lady gives her a fair amount of mangoes each year. I am not very fond of pickles and certainly not into pickle making. So I observe the friendly barter that happens in the neighborhood as the excess produce is shared among neighboring households

I feel no envy to be excluded from this exchange. There is something else that I benefit from. The same old lady has a hibiscus tree in front; a large flowering one that bears brilliant red flowers and obligingly offers them on my side of the wall. I am reminded of the story of Satybhama who asks Krishna for parijat tree in her yard, and is promptly rewarded with the fragrant flowering tree. Much to her consternation, the flowers fall into the neighbor’s yard as the tree bends and sags over the boundary. Each morning, I pluck the hibiscus blooms that are within easy reach. And think about Satyabhama.